Unsettled Spirits (26 page)

So, evidently, could Robert, because he lifted his napkin and dabbed at his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you both."

Sam reached for his pocket, but Robert held out a hand and stood. "This one's on me, Daisy and Detective Rotondo. You've helped me a lot, and the least I can do is treat you to lunch."

It looked for a moment as if Sam were going to argue with Robert about the meal ticket, but I poked him in the ribs with my elbow, and he merely grunted and said, "Uh. Thank you." Then he frowned at me. But that's all right. Robert felt better after chatting with the two of us, and that's what mattered. And he had more money than Sam or I did. Probably.

The waiter returned for one last visit, Robert paid him, and we rose from the table tucked away in a far corner at the back of the restaurant. We walked to the parking lot together and Robert climbed into his fancy Chevrolet. Sam and I waved him away as he took a slight turn right and headed for Fair Oaks, where he'd turn south and head back to the Underhill plant. Sam and I didn't speak as we trod to his Hudson. There he opened the door for me and I climbed in, wondering what hell he had in store for me as he took the same route Robert had taken to get to the Underhill plant and my own less-fancy-than-Robert's Chevrolet.

But he didn't scold me. Rather, he said, "Talking about that guy's dead fiancée was the only reason you two went to lunch together?" I could tell he didn't want to ask the question.

I said, "Yes."

"But he's a young, good-looking fellow, and you appear to have known him for some time."

"He was in Billy's graduating class in high school. He went on to college. He was drafted but never got off American soil during the war, so he finished college and went to work at Underhill."

"Huh."

"That's all, Sam." I put one of my hands on the one of his that was closest to me as he gripped the steering wheel. "Honest. He said he'd never been able to talk to anyone about Elizabeth. She only died in November, and he actually told me he thinks he should
be over
his grief by this time. As if anyone could be."

Sam shook his head. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable there at the restaurant at first. I was... um... surprised to see you with another man."

"Oh, Sam, you silly person. I've known Robert Browning slightly for years. He interviewed me when I went to the Underhill plant. He knew I'd been fairly recently widowed, and he asked if I'd mind talking to him about his Elizabeth. I didn't mind."

"Until I butted in."

"Actually, I was irritated at first, but I think you helped him more than I did."

With a startled glance at me, Sam said, "You do?"

"I do."

"Oh. Well, then." And he said no more.

Because the silence became uncomfortable after a few seconds, I said, "Oh, but Sam, I learned something today at the Underhill place."

"Yeah?" He'd started frowning, but I figured that was just Sam being Sam.

"Did you know that both Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Gerald Kingston work at Underhill's? She's in the stenographic pool and he's an engineer. He was dripping something into a glass retort when Robert took me on a tour of the plant. The lines are all downstairs, and the engineers and scientists—"

"Work upstairs. Yes. I know all that. We did interview the folks at Underhill, you know, Daisy. Trust me, we don't need your help."

"Oh." Only faintly daunted, I said, "Well, I thought it was interesting. I think, although I'm not sure, that Miss Powell and Mr. Kingston met at the plant, because Mr. Kingston started going to our church a few months ago, and he and Miss Powell seem to have some sort of romantic relationship in the works now."

"Huh."

All righty, then. "Never mind," I said.

"I won't," he said. "However, I
do
want to know what in Hades you were doing at the Underhill plant taking a tour of the place."

Whoops. I guess only Pa knew about my job interviews. "Um, I read in the classified section of the
Star News
that the Underhill plant needs to hire line girls. So I sort of applied for a job there."

"Sort of?"

"Well... Yes. Sort of. You see, I just thought it might be worth my while to go down there, talk to a few people, and..." Oh, dear. If I told Sam I'd wanted to investigate the place, he'd blow up at me. "Um, I just wanted to see the place."

"And interview for a job. Because you'd make so much more money as a line girl at Underhill's than you do as a fake spiritualist."

"Oh, very well. I was snooping. There. Are you satisfied?"

"No."

"I'm not going back," I said. "So you can save your lecture."

"Lecturing you is about as effective as lecturing a pile of rocks."

"Thanks, Sam." I felt my mouth flatten into a tight line.

"You're welcome." On the other hand, Sam had begun to grin.

Bless Sam's withered heart.

But no. I wrong the man. He had a big heart. The fact that he kept his softer emotions concealed some of the time—oh, very well,
most
of the time—didn't mean he didn't have any.

He turned into the Underhill parking lot and pulled up next to the Gumm/Majesty Chevrolet. Since he didn't kill the engine, I opened my own door. Before I allowed him to leave, I said, "You're coming to dinner tonight, aren't you?"

"If I'm invited."

I shook my head in mock annoyance. "You're always invited, Sam. I've told you that a thousand times."

Looking grumpy and slightly abashed, Sam said, "It hasn't been a thousand times."

"Has too." I leaned in and gave him a peck on his cheek. Which needed to be shaved again. I swear, the man grew hair faster than any other male human I've ever met.

"Well, then, see you tonight," said he, and he drove out of the Underhill lot. If I were to guess, he was a happier man than he'd been when he'd entered Mijares and espied Robert and me seated at that conspicuous table.

Shaking my head, I opened the door to my automobile and climbed in. Is there a way, I wondered, that a woman can ever understand the workings of a man's brain? I decided that was too complex a question for a short ride, so I ceased thinking.

As for my route, I turned north on Fair Oaks Avenue and tootled up the street a mile or two. Or maybe three. I'm not sure how far away the Underhill plant is from the Pasadena Public Library, but that's where I headed. I'd told Mrs. Pinkerton I'd ask about Stacy's beloved with another Petrie. Perhaps Miss Petrie, my favorite librarian, might have some dirt to fling about Mr. Percival Petrie, who might be of the same Petrie tree as hers or of one of its less savory offshoots. I figured, as long as I was out and about, I might as well get it over with because, sure as anything, Mrs. Pinkerton would be telephoning me in another tizzy about the same matter soon.

I had a most enlightening chat with Miss Petrie, but since our chat has nothing to do with the matter in question here, I'll go into it later.

Chapter 21

The rest of that week passed pleasantly enough. I read a lot, went for a daily walk or two with Pa and Spike, read the tarot and used the Ouija board almost constantly for Mrs. Pinkerton. As I'd predicted, she telephoned me each day, and every time she called, she was either in hysterics or a tizzy or both. All her states were related to her idiot daughter Stacy and Stacy's so-called fiancé, Mr. Percival Petrie. Naturally, I also ate a good many delicious meals prepared by my very own Aunt Vi.

Then came Thursday, which was choir-rehearsal night. Sam took dinner with us that evening he generally did.

"This is wonderful, Mrs. Gumm," said he, forking a bite of beef stew into his mouth.

Typical. He always complimented Aunt Vi, who deserved it, but he wasn't awfully creative in his use of adjectives.

"Superb," said I, in an attempt to give him a hint.

"Thank you both. It's just a regular old beef stew."

"Nothing you fix is regular old anything, Aunt Vi," I told her. "You make the best of everything there is to make." Recalling the luncheon salad she'd fed me a couple of days prior, I told the table in general, "Vi's going to give us all a salamander salad one of these days. It's delicious. I can vouch for it, because she gave me some for lunch at Mrs. Pinkerton's place a couple of days ago."

"Salmagundi, Daisy," Aunt Vi said with a shudder. "I wouldn't inflict salamanders on anyone."

"Oh, that's right," I said, embarrassed. "Sorry. Salmagundi."

"Aren't salamanders those lizard-like things that live under rocks?" asked Pa as if he really wanted to know.

"I think so," said Sam. Grinning at me, he said, "Why don't you try a salamander and tell us how you like it?"

"Don't be mean, Sam Rotondo. I meant
salmagundi
salad. I misspoke. I didn't mean Vi fed me anything at all having to do with lizards."

"Ew. I don't want to talk about lizards at the table," said Ma, frowning at me.

Sometimes I couldn't do anything right even when I tried.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. I figured I'd just let it reign, since my efforts at conversation seemed destined for failure.

I regretted my decision a second later, when Pa said, "So how'd your interview at the Underhill plant go, Daisy?"

A duet of "Your
what
?" went up from Ma and Vi. What's more, they both commenced staring in horror at me. Sam merely rolled his eyes and took another bite of his stew.

Aw, shoot. "It went well, thank you. I won't be working there."

Ma at once commenced interrogating me about why I'd applied for a job, and was I trying to pry into police business, etc., etc. I only sighed and continued to eat my meal, although my appetite had fled.

"Well?" Ma asked, sounding more irked than usual. "Why did you apply for a job at the Underhill place? Are you nosing into police business again, Daisy Majesty?"

Lifting my gaze to meet hers, I sighed and said, "Just thought I'd find out what a line job at the plant is like. It's like heck. I decided to stick with spiritualism. Talking to dead people pays better than filling poison bottles, anyway."

"Daisy!" said my mother, now peeved with my honesty. Or maybe my choice of words. Because I didn't like it when my mother was mad at me, I opted to tell her a smidgeon of the truth.

"Sorry, Ma. But I promised Miss Emmaline Castleton that I'd look into Mrs. Franbold's death, and now that Mr. Underhill has been poisoned, I thought there might be a connection, and it might be at his chemical factory." Staring at Sam, I said, "Since nobody's sharing any pertinent information with me, I have to dig around on my own."

"You do not," said Sam stonily.

"I agree with Sam," said Pa, giving me a regretful smile. "Sorry, sweetie, but you always seem to get into some kind of trouble when you poke into police business."

"According to Sam, I might get a commendation from the Altadena Sheriff's Department for helping to find Mr. Evans," said I defiantly. Didn't work.

"Might. That's not because you went up into the hills and confronted a gang of bootleggers by yourself. You gave the proper authorities a tip, and
they
found Mr. Evans." Sam chewed savagely on a biscuit.

Clearly I couldn't win that night. So I just finished dinner, smiled at everyone, washed and put away the dinner dishes, bade everyone a fond(ish) farewell, and went to church for choir practice.

Bother my family.

Not that I didn't love them all.

Oh, never mind.

* * *

I wasn't precisely surprised to see Miss Betsy Powell at the church that night. After all, she belonged to various church committees. We kind of jostled each other when I was poking around the sanctuary in an attempt to figure out who might have done in Mr. Underhill. My pokery went for naught, although I did, as I said, bump into Miss Powell.

We both leaped back several inches and slammed our hands over our thundering hearts. My heart was thundering, at any rate; I don't know what hers was doing. "Oh, Miss Powell! I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there." I squinted at her. "Why
are
you here?"

Very well, I suppose my question might be considered impolite, but the woman seemed to be everywhere I went during those several weeks.